Primroses Bloom at Nightfall
by ferricflower
Summary: There wasn't particularly much on this Bruce Wayne fellow, apart from what the tabloids and gossip rags wrote. Playboy, womanizer, rich person. And now murderer? Detective Brass opened the case box and began browsing the evidence. He was going to show this rich prodigal boy that Bruce Wayne was not above the law. Not in Gotham. Bruce W./Batman & OC. Post TDK, Nolanverse
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 **

This was a room where pain had no voice. In the white-tiled silence of its walls, his every step echoed like a bombastic blast of fireworks. Now, he wished he'd never accepted the job. But the scrunched up bills the man had showed into his palm had been too damn tempting. There were three other men in the room –thugs, ex-cons, drifters by the looks of them, and then a fourth, a spindly young man with a clipboard. Jake glanced at him.

_Looks like the kid's gonna shit himself soon. _

The clipboard trembled in his hands. He looked like some kind of doctor type, scrubs and all. They carried the last black body bag into the room and opened it. Female, bald, black bruises under her eyes. Nosebleed. That's as much as Jake cared to know or look. He moved to the other side of the room and leaned on the white-tiled wall.

"The son-of-a-bitch can't stomach a bit of blood." The man, who'd thrust the scrunched up bills into his palm at the bar, sneered. He called himself Tom something.

The doctor type kid moved around and removed the tags from their wrists with scissors, reattaching knew ones. The old ones littered the floor like confetti. Then the kid took out his little suitcase and opened it. Jake saw four knives and two guns.

"I-I need someone to help me."

Tom pushed Jake from the wall. The force rammed him into one of the metallic examination tables. His bare hand brushed the skin of the dead woman.

"I've gotta a volunteer for you."

Jake couldn't refuse. The doctor kid handed him a gun. "Okay," his voice shook like a bad radio transmission. He walked to the first table. The bag revealed an old man, bald, blue bruises on the face, swollen neck. Jake swallowed. The cheap half-cooked pasta he'd had at one of the Italian joints that had sickly neon lights and chipped, moldy paint welled up in his throat. Some half-assed tune from a pasta sauce commercial kept cycling in his mind. The kid picked up the new tag he'd attached to the man's wrist and read aloud, "John Doe, 38, gunshot wound to the chest." Jake held the black piece of metal. The kid looked at him, as though he expected him to do something.

"Gunshot wound to the chest," he repeated slowly and looked at Jake and the gun.

After he was done with all three, he vomited on the floor. Red pasta sauce splattered on the white tiled wall. Their faces hadn't shown any pain. Silent, soundless. The room was quiet again, save for the shuffling as the rest of the hired hands moved the bodies outside. The kid's voice echoed in his head.

_Jane Doe, 29, multiple stab wounds to the neck and stomach. John Doe, 38, gunshot wound to the leg, stab wound to the neck. Jane Doe, 25, multiple stab wounds to the chest, blunt force trauma to the head. _

He focused on the carefully pronounced words that made this fucked up shit sound like some kind of fancy experiment in whatever fancy ass college the kid has graduated from. He arched his back and in a wave of nausea another bucketful of vomit hurled from his mouth. He dropped on his knees and placed his head on the floor. The scrunched up dollars dropped out of his pocket and soaked up the stomach fluid.

Amid the half-digested pieces of tomato and spaghetti, he saw a green wrist band, one of those things the kid has cut off the dead woman. _Sandra Cross, 29, leukemia, clinical trial group 2. _She'd become _Jane Doe, 29, multiple stab wounds to the neck and stomach, _after he'd punctured her body several times with the knife the kid had given him. His body shook with revulsion. He pocketed the wrist band and picked up another one. Light blue. _Richard Park, 38, leukemia, clinical trial group 3. _The last one had skidded behind the cupboard. Jake crawled under and examination table and wedged himself between the cupboard and the wall.

Suddenly, he heard three gunshots. The kid screamed. A fourth gunshot. A truck revved. The door opened and the sound of boots ricocheted off the walls.

"Where is that son-of-a bitch?" Tom something. Looking for him. He saw the boots move around the room. Another batch of vomit splashed into his mouth, but fear kept him quiet. He heard the truck engine. The boots. The sound of a gun hitting the metal tables.

"Boss, we gotta go. The cops might be here any minute." One of the goons had survived. _Just go, take your fucked up shit and go, _Jake pleaded.

"Cops don't come here, you asshole." Tom something barked. "She's not gonna be happy we let one live." Tom something made a few rounds of the room throwing the tables over.

"What she ain't gonna know, she ain't gonna be angry at," he finally said, picked up his gun and shot the goon. "Can't have you telling her I let one son-of-a bitch slip away." The door was slammed. Jake heard the truck drive away. He leaned his head on the wall, banging it against the cold, white tiles and cried.

Maybe it had been days. Or hours. Or weeks. When he finally exited the white tiled room, he found himself on the loading dock of a warehouse, a rundown piece of crap someone should've razed to the ground a long time ago. The sky was the colour a badly done purple paint job with a few specs of light. Fucking stars in the fucking sky. Their beauty made him cry.

Maybe twilight, maybe dawn. He didn't give a fuck about anything else, but the fact that his lungs inhaled cold pure air and city exhaust. The hum of cars and buses, ambulances, cops, the exhausted smell of commuter-packed subways, all that in the distance. He ran his fingers- sticky from pasta sauce vomit- on the plastic wrist bands in his pocket. Their names, narrated loud and clear in the stuck-up voice of the kid, whose body he'd passed in a nearby alley, plunged deep into his consciousness like heavy stones falling through water. He owed his life to the little plastic things.

She had followed him from the warehouse to the abandoned subway station in the Narrows. Always keeping, a few yards behind his worn out blue hat and vomit-stained coat. The gray dawn prevented her from seeing his face, the street-hardened brick of a countenance that had born every disappointment with the same stoic nonchalance. Only, the eyes, filled with gratefulness and tears as they scanned the fading stars above. He turned left and descended the stairs onto the platform. She followed. Her flat sneakers didn't utter a sound as she made it down the battered steps and walked up behind him. He was smoking the remnants of some cigarette butt he'd picked off the asphalt, lazily sucking in the calming nicotine. She imagined the molecule dissolving in his bloodstream, erasing the pain and fear that the night's experience had brought. As slickly as a cat stalking its prey, she clasped her gloved hand over his mouth and pushed her gun into his side. It wasn't loaded. But he didn't know that.

"Shh," she whispered into his ear as he trashed around. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to know everything that happened at the warehouse tonight."

She reached her car at around 7 am, the wrist bands in a ziplock tucked into in the pocket of her windbreaker. The man had been happy to part with them after she'd flashed a bunch of hundreds at him. She took the bag out and placed it on the passenger seat. Precious evidence. In the car, she tossed the black clothes into a plastic bag and changed her sneakers into a pair of high heels. It was absolutely necessary to keep the two faces of her life and the people who knew her as either the Gotham socialite or a fucked up avenging shadow from the streets from being mutually acquainted. She turned on the Gotham Central Radio to shatter the silence and took deep breaths, just like Sandra had told her to do when the pain took over. Too bad she'd left her painkillers at home. As she drove on Interstate 979 toward Gotham Center City, the morning news, accompanied by the cheery tune, came on.

_This is_ _Mark Stratton and you're listening to GCR's Morning Headlines. This morning the scientific community was shaken by the announcement from Dr. Clarissa Redmont, senior project leader at Redmont-Bell Industries. The Redmont lab has concluded a series of successful five-year clinical trials concerning a pioneering anti-leukemia drug Primdon. The drug will be approved for use in the next two months. The spokesperson for Redmont-Bell industries called Dr. Redmont's discovery a pioneering effort in the use of plant-derived cytotoxins in the battle against leukemia. _

She smashed the button to silence the voice. _Successful clinical trials_. Sure. Too bad they'd neglected to mention the body count the company had stacked up while 'pioneering'. She glanced at the clear bag and the names on the wrist bands inside. Sandra Cross, Richard Park and Elaine Green didn't fit into her definition of successful.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: All rights to Nolan, DC, Warner Brothers. I own only my characters. **

**Rating: M for language and violence. **

She let the door slide open and listened to the sounds. Once you crossed a certain line, a lack of vigilance was foolish. She knew she'd walked right past that line a long time ago. But the apartment bathed in silence. No sound, no movement. Only the curtain billowing like a sail in the morning breeze. Exhaling, she walked into the living room and opened her safe. The plastic bracelets would be safe here, for now. Then she kicked off her heels and took off her hat.

She was 28, tall and had frizzy brown hair. At least according to the picture that stood on the drawer. But when she looked into the dressing room mirror, a more savage beauty drifted to the surface. Bald head, black bruises under her eyes. Long stints in the ward had turned her skin into a white, paper thin film draping the bluish veins on her skull and wrists. The prognosis was less than stellar.

Suddenly she heard a knock and then the sound of keys turning in the lock.

"E?"

She inhaled sharply. She had forgotten it was Sunday morning. Her father had never missed a Sunday.

"Just a second, dad."

Draping an old bathrobe around her body, she went to greet him. Like on business days, he was dressed in a suit, tanned- from a recent medical conference in Barbados-and smelled of musk and disinfectant. He embraced her in the hallway. "Hi, dad," she breathed into the fabric of the suit.

They parted and he looked her over.

"You look tired."

"Just been out with the girls. Long night." She stifled a mock yawn. He knew it was a lie, but it was too comforting not to be believed. After she had received the diagnosis, his daughter had barely done anything else except worked in the laboratory and sat at home.

"Well, I brought your favorites. Croissants with fig jam and a latte. I wasn't sure whether you liked it with 2 percent or whole, so I took both." He thrust two paper bags and a cardboard cup holder into her arms.

"Thanks, dad."

They went into the kitchen where she pulled out plates for the croissants, golden-crusted from the oven. A phantom of heat lingered in them. He sat opposite her and sipped the latte.

"So what did the doctor say?"

She had gone over this question in her mind a million times. Just to make sure her lie sounded plausible.

"The white cell count is down," she lied.

"That's good. Good. "

Those words were meant more for him than for her. Then he unraveled the _Gotham Times _ he was carrying and showed her the front page.

PRIMDON OFFERS HOPE TO ACUTE LEUKEMIA PATIENTS

_Redmont-Bell Laboratories has released a statement that is sure to change the treatment of acute leukemia in adult patients. The new drug patented by the company and invented by the team lead by Dr. Clarissa Redmont had passed a successful five year clinical trial. "More than half of the test group exhibited strong signs of recovery within 12 months of commencing the treatment and the five-year survival rate of the test group rose to 85%," an excited Dr. Redmont shared with the reporters at the press conference. The exciting announcement has also stirred the stagnating pharmaceutical stock markets with an anticipated surge in the price of Redmont-Bell Laboratories stock, spurned by the announcement that Wayne Enterprises would be directly funding further research and testing of Primdon._

**OOO**

She was glad his visits never lasted longer than an hour or so. When the black Bentley had rounded the corner of the street, she took another deep breath. The pain had returned, sharper than ever. Rubbing her side to dispel the unfortunate sensation, she made way to the dresser and took out a small black cell phone. A secure line the agent had given her. _Whenever you call me with information, use this phone. _The voice on the other side picked up immediately.

"I have new information concerning Redmont-Bell," she breathed into the receiver. The agent hesitated. It was too dangerous for them to meet now that Redmont-Bell had gone public. _This cannot wait_, E thought. Finally the woman on the other side of the line gave in. They agreed to meet at 5pm at the National Gallery.

It was only 1pm. She took a half chewed croissant in one hand and opened her lap top. There was a lot of information about Wayne Enterprises: stock numbers, board members, their names, personal pages, blogs, tweet feeds. She sifted through the formalities and opened a few of the celebrity pages. Bruce Wayne, billionaire, trust-fund baby, a man that stood against everything decent and good in this world. She looked at the picture of him hanging, drunkenly from the arm of some supermodel or movie starlet. Handsome, even while slurring his speech, she had to give him that, but otherwise an asshole, whose sole purpose in life seemed to revolve around fast cars and fast relationships. He lived in a mansion in the Palisades. She knew she was walking on thin ice as it was. She had nothing to lose by pulling this stunt. Pensively looking at Wayne's picture, she picked the _Gotham Times_ her father had left on the chair, gathered glue and scissors from the desk and began cutting out letters.

**OOO**

Greet concentrated her gaze on the voluminous hair of the woman in the painting. _Venus bathing. _The title card strung next to it said. This was not her first time on the field job, but this time she felt the threat of exposure breathing on her neck, hot and close. The name they had assigned her was Greet van Kroemoeller, a Dutch chemist working in the pharmaceutical industry. She didn't feel comfortable in the role. The call had come Sunday midday, and the woman's voice had sounded steady and raspy, like two pieces of steel rubbed together. Was she perhaps ill?

"Hello," Greet had said into the phone.

"I have new information regarding the case," the woman said. "But I cannot share it here. Can we meet?"

"I am not sure that is a good idea. We might both be exposed."

"It's important evidence." Greet was silent. This case had had too many close calls for her to be relaxed about security. But important evidence was important evidence.

The woman on the other line did not wait for Greet to answer.

"I will come to the National Gallery at 5pm, the Italian Renaissance section. Wait for me at painting of Venus bathing. If there is an emergency, remember to use the fire escape."

"If there is an emergency, remember to use the fire escape?" Greet thought as she had shut the phone.

It was 5:05 and there was no sign of anyone coming her way. Greet had never met her source, and there were no women meeting her description coming towards her. It was not in her book to let sources assign meeting places. However, she had been getting nowhere on the case. After the lead in Sweden, the trace of any illegal activity at the Redmont-Bell Laboratories had frozen up. She let her gaze drift from left to right. Peculiarly, right next to Venus bathing was a fire escape, stealthily concealed behind a bench. Without the little red sign above the door, she would have never noticed it.

_Five more minutes and I'll go she thought. _All of a sudden the fire alarm went off, blinking and flashing in hot white strobe lights. The orderly conduct of the tourist groups and families visiting was chaotically thrown off. Someone pushed her off the bench. A pair of glasses landed next to her and were crushed.

"Over here please, use the main corridor. It is the closest to the exit." The voice of the curator was calm and composed. But instead of following the crowd Greet scrambled to the left and pushed the bench aside. She opened the fire escape door and stepped inside. A dark figure took her hand and clasped a gloved one on her lips.

**OOO**

A black Volvo sat in the drive way like a beetle, its gleaming coat flickering in the sunlight. It had been there yesterday morning too. The driver's face was obscured behind sunglasses. Someone had talked. Quinlan? No. He didn't love her all that much, but he valued himself. It was inevitable that now as the bitch had gone public, she'd want to silence anyone who might bring her down from the podium. It would be prudent to get the evidence out of her hands and fast.

Without stealing another look at the Volvo, she closed the blinds in her bedroom and opened the close door. Black dress, a trench coat, high heels. In a separate room, she housed her wigs, a formidable collection. Riddled by guilt, her father had bought her more than she needed, including some really exotic ones. She picked a waist-length flaming red one. She'd never worn it anywhere outside this apartment. She opened the window, and with the heels in her hands carefully jumped to the fire escape on the floor below.

**OOO**

"Sorry about that," the redhead said and let Greet go. The woman was significantly taller than Greet, in five inch heels and sporting flaming red hair.

"What day is it?" she asked

"The 22nd of January," Greet answered.

That was the safe code.

The redhead relaxed and replaced her gun inside her coat. Greet tried to steady her breathing. Around them, the fire sirens were blaring out. The sound of running feet and muffled screams echoed around the building. The redhead pulled out a little bag from her breast pocket.

"Here."

Greet examined the little ziplock bag. It contained broken plastic bracelets, the kind that nurses put on patients in hospitals.

"The names of three victims from Redmont's clinical trial. The bodies have been disposed by inflicting false wounds and planting them in morgues at large center city hospitals."

The redhead looked at her watch.

"How did you find this out?" Greet asked.

Before the redhead could answer, the door burst open and a squadron of firefighters rushed in. Greet turned around, but the redhead had already vanished.


End file.
